


The Phantom with a Crush

by everybodylies



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5362163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Broadway AU. Marcus is an actor, and Sherlock is a theater critic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Phantom with a Crush

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about Broadway or newspapers

_Detective Bell once confided in me he played Sky Masterson in his high school production of Guys and Dolls. I had not, until this moment, imagined that he was any good. Stage’s loss is New York City’s gain, I suppose._

 

 

Marcus was getting his face powdered in the makeup chair when he heard the commotion. He tried to lean over and see what was happening, but Aisha scolded him and pushed him back.

“Not til I’m done, honey.”

“But,” Marcus said, concerned, “it sounds really bad out there.”

“Nothing that can’t wait twenty minutes.”

“Aisha! I just heard the director scream that her life was over.”

Aisha snapped her gum and sighed. She put her brush down for a moment, crossed the room to grab a newspaper, and pushed it into Marcus’s hands. “I assume it has something to do with this. Now, you stay still.”

Marcus scanned the paper and quickly found what he was looking for. Apparently, the Phantom had reviewed their show and given it one star.

He let out a long breath. Well, it wasn’t the end of the world, though it may have seemed to be to Sal, the director, who’d had high expectations for this show. They’d gotten plenty of better reviews from other critics, and besides, the Phantom was a notoriously hard grader; the only show he’d ever given five whole stars to was a production of Cats from 2001.

_Reimann’s production never manages to find its footing. Actors seem confused about which emotions they should be experiencing. The scenes swing wildly from gaudy, slapstick humour, to melodramatic tragedy with no time in between. Had this musical been advertised as a comedy, perhaps, I would have given it higher marks._

Marcus whistled. Not only did Sal direct the show, she also wrote it. She was probably not very happy at the moment. He kept reading.

_The Time of Dance is not a complete waste of time, however. The choreography of several numbers is quite masterful and enjoyable to watch, provided one does not listen to the drivel coming out of the mouths of the dancers. In addition, Marcus Bell, who plays supporting character Dr. Banks, delivers a standout performance. Out of all of the performers in the show, Bell, alone, seems to be able to take this joke of a script and make it into something more. He is certainly a rising star to watch._

Aisha, who had been reading over his shoulder, slapped him on the back. “Good job, honey! Half of that star belongs to you!”

Marcus smiled to himself. Yeah. Yeah, it did.

* * *

It didn’t make too much sense for a theater critic to be anonymous. For a food critic, sure, but a theater critic, not so much.

Regardless, the Phantom kept his identity secret, never came on opening night, never used his critic status to get better and cheaper seats. According to the Phantom himself, all this was to ensure that his reviews were completely objective and accurate. But as Marcus soon began to realize, the Phantom was not as objective as he may have thought himself to be.

Upon arriving at the theater Friday afternoon, Marcus got a newspaper shoved into his face. The shover turned out to be Jacob, the stage director.

“We got Phantom’d!” Jacob exclaimed, waggling his eyebrows.

“So we’re using that as a verb now, alright,” Marcus said as he took the paper.

Three stars. Not bad. A marked improvement over the last one, at least.

_The production gets points for sheer audacity; adapting Les Mis into a modern interpretation of the 2010 Arab Spring is not an undertaking for the faint-hearted. Unfortunately, Polk’s attempt falls flat more often than succeeds. Several scenes come across as awkward and hackneyed, and the plot in general is difficult to follow._

_However, from the technical standpoint, the production is fantastic. All actors performed excellently and with enthusiasm. Particularly of note is Marcus Bell, who plays a young Enjolras—_

“Didn’t you say you were the only thing the Phantom liked in your last musical?” Jacob asked. “Looks like someone’s got a crush on you,” he teased, eyes gleeful.

“It’s not a crush,” objected Marcus. “I’m just that good a performer.”

Jacob stared at him doubtfully. “Keep reading,” he said.

_—Bell’s boyish good looks and irresistible charm—_

“Hm,” he said.

* * *

Marcus walked into the theater the morning after opening night to find champagne bottles being popped open.

“What’s so exciting?” Marcus asked the tech who pushed a glass into his hand.

“The Phantom gave us four stars!” the tech answered. “Now we’re sold out until January!”

Marcus was more confused than excited. “Already? But he never comes to opening night.”

The tech just shrugged. “Dunno,” she said, and walked off.

Marcus looked around for a spare newspaper and saw none. Though, he didn’t feel the urge to read the review right now in any case. He already knew most of what it would say; there’d be an entire paragraph dedicated to praising Marcus’s performance, as usual.

Instead, he just leaned against a table, sipped from his glass, and thought. And as he thought, he began to smile.

* * *

This was it. After years of drama class, school plays, minor roles in minor productions, and one short-lived stint on daytime television—he’d made it. Leading actor. Sky Masterson. Guys and Dolls.

He sat in his private dressing room, waiting for curtain up and feeling kind of dazed. It was surreal, really. For the past month, he’d seen posters with his face and his name in big letters covering New York City, and he still didn’t believe it. And the more he thought about it, the worse he felt. His heart kept skipping beats.

He decided he needed to distract himself before he started freaking out. And he knew exactly how to do it.

Marcus grabbed a sweatshirt and zipped it up over his costume as he left his dressing room. That was when Perry, his understudy, rounded the corner. “Hey Marcus, I— _wait_ , where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Marcus said innocently.

“Marcus! It’s opening night! Your opening night! _Where the Hell are you going?_ ”

Marcus slipped on his hood, taking care not to mess up any of his makeup. “It’s fine. I just need ten minutes.”

“Marcus!” Perry shouted after him, looking stricken and fairly green. “You’d better come back!”

Theatergoers milled around, getting drinks, chatting. Marcus weaved in between them and listened intently. He had a good idea what he was looking for. It was still an hour and a half before showtime, so the place wasn’t too crowded. The only people here this early were big fans and perhaps even—

“Watson, really. If you continue to insist that Grease is your favorite musical, I will be forced to stop bringing you along to these shows,” a man said in a British accent. He was dressed casually, striped shirt buttoned all the way to the top, no tie. His jaw was grizzled, and his eyes were quick. Somehow he looked exactly like Marcus had been imagining.

The woman next to him rolled her eyes. “Stop being such a snob. It’s not cute. And it’s not like I need you to bring me to musicals. I have my own money, you know. I could buy twenty tickets to Grease if I wanted.”

“You wouldn’t,” the man gasped.

“Try me.”

“Um, excuse me,” Marcus cut in. The other two turned to him, and from the way the man’s eyes widened, Marcus could tell he’d gotten it right. “You’re the Phantom, right? I’m Marcus.”

The man looked like he was going to object, then finally decided against it and nodded. “How did you know?” he asked.

“I could tell you were British from the spelling in your reviews,” Marcus explained. “And you’re here early. And you’re carrying a notebook under your arm. And just… the way you talk.”

The man smiled faintly. “Well done. Perhaps, in another life you could have been a detective.” He extended a hand, and Marcus shook it. “My real name is Sherlock Holmes. Please don’t call me the Phantom. That is a tawdry moniker that _someone_ forced upon me in order to make me seem mysterious.”

“It was me, and it’s the only reason you’re famous,” the woman said.

“False,” replied Sherlock. “This is Joan Watson, my editor.” She and Marcus shook hands.

“I’m not just your editor. I’m everybody’s editor.”

“Yes, but I’m your favorite.”

Marcus looked at both of them. “Are you two,” he said, “you know…dating?”

“God, no,” Joan blurted at the same time that Sherlock groaned, “For God’s sake.”

“Okay,” Marcus said.

Joan laughed, then shook her head and switched the topic. “So, I’m guessing you came down to meet your biggest fan?” she asked, Sherlock’s face reddening as she did.

“Yeah, I mean, I just wanted to come and thank him, thank you,” Marcus said, nodding towards Sherlock, “for all the nice things you said about me over the years. Did wonders for my career.”

Sherlock was blushing, hard, and it was adorable. “No need for thanks,” he said matter-of-factly. “I was merely speaking the truth.”

“Yeah, well. Still, I honestly don’t know if I’d be starring in a Broadway musical tonight if it weren’t for you, so thank you.”

Sherlock just stared and nodded, like he didn’t know how to respond.

“Your biggest role yet,” Joan said, wagging her eyebrows with delight. “You must be so excited.”

“I really am. It still doesn’t feel real.”

“Are you nervous?” she teased.

“A little, actually,” Marcus admitted with a small chuckle.

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock, his eyes bright and a little bit kind. “You will be, as always, quite exceptional. I have faith in this.”

Marcus looked back at Sherlock for a moment, until his stomach started flip-flopping, and he felt the need to turn away. He stared at the ground and wrung his hands.

After a few seconds of this, Joan sighed and spoke up. “Oh, hey, _Sherlock_ , remember when Gregson said you needed to get more creative with your pieces? What about an interview with _Marcus_ , wouldn’t that be a _cool_ _feature?_ ” She batted Sherlock on the arm several times. “Marcus, how would you feel about an interview with the Times? You two could _exchange numbers._ ”

A little while later, Marcus hurried back to his dressing room, Sherlock Holmes’s phone number weighing down his pocket. _Thank God for Joan Watson_ , he thought.

* * *

The next morning, Marcus slept in, woke up around noon. He made coffee, cooked himself some breakfast, and took a shower. He read all the congratulations text messages and emails he’d gotten from family and friends and replied to all of them.

And, finally, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he put on some real clothes and headed downstairs. A copy of the Times from the corner bodega cost him two dollars fifty. He flipped through the pages casually, until he got to the Arts pages. And then he grinned.

_Five stars!_

* * *

Sherlock met Marcus at a little coffee shop a few blocks away from Times Square. Once they’d both ordered and sat down, Sherlock pulled out a little tape recorder and set it on the table.

“Oh, so we’re actually doing the interview thing,” Marcus said, slightly surprised.

“Yes.” Sherlock stared. “Did you think this was a date?”

“…Yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, once. “Well, it will be,” he assured Marcus. “In approximately twenty minutes, after I have enough material for an article.” He shrugged, a little sheepishly. “It was actually a good idea, and my editor-in-chief has been pushing me to diversify my column. Do you mind?”

“No,” Marcus said, chuckling. “But only if I get to interview you after. And you have to answer all my questions about you.”

“It’s a deal,” said Sherlock with a smile.

* * *

After their fifth dinner date, they’d gone back to Marcus’s place for the first time. His apartment was closer to the restaurant, and, besides, Marcus had been starting to get tired of the sex blanket.

Marcus let Sherlock into his apartment a little nervously. Sherlock lived in a gorgeous two story brownstone in Brooklyn, and Marcus’s place was far more modest; he hadn’t been a Broadway star for very long, after all. But Sherlock didn’t say anything, and he seemed to be making himself at home while Marcus was pouring the wine.

He went to hand Sherlock a glass and found him peering at a frame on the wall by the bathroom.

“You have my one star review hanging in your apartment,” observed Sherlock, amused.

Marcus scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, um, my friend from that production got it framed and sent it to me. She said I should be proud, since half of that star is mine.”

“Closer to three-fourths, I would say,” Sherlock said, “if I am remembering correctly.” Suddenly his face turned serious. “I want to tell you something.”

“…Okay,” Marcus said, slightly concerned. He took a big sip of his wine.

“As you know,” Sherlock began. “I pride myself on the complete objectivity of my reviews.”

Marcus chuckled. “Yes, I know. I once watched you bring a folding chair to a theater because you were worried the cushions were too soft.”

“Well, I want you to know that every review I ever gave you was completely unbiased. I _never_ gave you more stars than you deserved.”

Marcus’s first instinct is to say he doesn’t really care whether or not he earned those stars, that he’s happy enough just performing on Broadway and being here with Sherlock. But after three weeks of dating the man, Marcus had come to realize that statements like this were basically the height of romance for Sherlock Holmes.

So, instead, he nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and he meant it. “And let me say this, completely objectively: you are the best theater critic in the New York metropolitan area.”

Sherlock didn’t smile, but his eyes did. “Hmph,” he said, unconvinced.

Laughing, Marcus leaned in for a kiss.


End file.
